


The Lure of Bed Sheets (and how the Doctor’s appearance helped sort out a thing or two)

by Airafleeza



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Superwholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airafleeza/pseuds/Airafleeza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The newly-imported, striped duvet was softer, a quality Sherlock never really bothered to strive for until John began to share his bed.</p><p>Then Sherlock cared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lure of Bed Sheets (and how the Doctor’s appearance helped sort out a thing or two)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Qualyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qualyn/gifts).



> This is part of my gift to [nhanhacoisoetalbanana](http://nhanhacoisoetalbanana.tumblr.com/) for Johnlock Challenge's first Grab Bag Challenge! I was given the prompt “Is that what I think it is?”. From that, I did [this illustration](http://airafleeza.tumblr.com/post/41430448512), which caused this little ficlet to spring forth!
> 
> I hope you like it, and I know it's improper to apologize for one's art, but please be kind! I haven't really written a fic for 6 years!

The newly-imported, striped duvet was softer, a quality Sherlock never really bothered to strive for until John began to share his bed.

Then Sherlock cared.

This was John, and it had to be perfect and alluring because otherwise, he could just sleep in his own bedroom, which as of recent was more of a safe haven in case a certain sociopath became too infuriating.

Or even worse: John would suggest they both share his too small of a mattress upstairs instead.

It wasn’t the fact his feet hung off the edge of the railing, or that he had to anchor himself to John to ensure no one would tumble onto the floor. No, he honestly didn’t mind too much for those things; Sherlock’s concern was caused by the memories of plummeting down the stairs at an unholy hour while performing routine check-ups on experiments marinating in the fridge.

“Why bother, then?” John had asked the next morning. The silence was broken, and he paused from his newspaper. “You’re just going to wake up in the middle of the night, anyway.”

Sherlock refused to be as open as to admit he didn’t have plans of sleeping from the start. Not unless it was after a big case, of course. He wouldn’t let on that he liked waiting for John to fall asleep. The army doctor’s defenses would disappear, his face smoothed out and sometimes he even muttered the most nonsensical, but highly amusing things; bits of day residue that commonly involved Sherlock (because he filled his day, and John his, and his forever, the _completely_ logical sociopath had reasoned) and Sherlock would snort then, and proceed to leave the room, wholly satisfied.

“Experiments, John,” he had replied, sparing John the long answer. “Can’t keep them waiting.” He said this smartly and pivoted his attention half-heartedly to his microscope. He disregarded the toast John had placed off to the side, but John would not haggle him about breakfast this time.

“Yeah, well, same can be said for me,” John huffed, playfully thumping _The Independent_ against dark, bed-head curls as he crossed the kitchen to the sink. Jolting up, Sherlock eyed him suspiciously until John’s index finger motioned to his watch, indicating other pressing matters. “Lestrade? We told him first thing in the morning.”

And so, without further remark, they had made their arrangement permanent. But John could always change, Sherlock feared, so he continuously felt the need to seduce John with above par—no, _superior_ — bed sheets.

A night came along where they were too enticing to London’s greatest detective. With several long cases overlapping, his covert plan backfired—the pressure of the warm body to his left, and the way his cool pillow molded supportively under his face certainly did not discourage him either. Before even Sherlock could calculate the exact conditions of why he was falling under the charms of sleep, he was unconscious. John was slow to realize this, used to the typical one-sided conversations where he awkwardly prattled on about his day at the surgery or market until falling asleep. Nevertheless, he turned, facing Sherlock and looking fondly at the man, content at the thought of what a good night’s rest always meant for Sherlock’s mood. There was always a serene hum that seemed to radiate off his chest the next morning, and his demeanor would be docile, full and warm— very likely to sit on the couch and enjoy a cuddle with John. He grinned a bit; he’d wanted to wrap up his Bond marathon for a while now and tomorrow evening was looking hopeful.

Coaxed into sleep with that thought, John’s dreams were disturbed by a blinking blue light and the stridulous sound that only a rematerializing TARDIS with its breaks left on could produce.

There was a thump, and John sat up, which Sherlock protested against mentally, not roused enough to capture John with his arms to compel him to go back to bed. With a stretch, John inched away, which Sherlock detested against even more as the room’s cold air was able to join under the covers thanks to the space between their bodies.

Sherlock drowsily peeked to his right, the police box parked in the farthest corner of the room. “Is that what I think it is?” came a deep grumbling, to which John replied to with a crackly “Yup.” John’s white, goose-feather pillow was grabbed, and Sherlock went through all the motions of thoroughly smothering himself, as though it were an option instead of confrontation. Humor filled John’s tired eyes.

“Tell _it_ to leave. Immediately.”

John’s face dropped. “ _It_ , Sherlock?” he began, but relented quickly and sighed. He moved on. “Sherlock, he took you in for three years. You travelled with him. Not to mention he helped you with Moran.” He stared hard at the back of Sherlock’s head—or at least the pillow that had replaced the space where it ought to be. “I think that constitutes him as being a friend. He probably just wants some company.” Though why the Doctor would ever willingly choose Sherlock for company, John could never understand why. Months after coming out as a couple and people still to this day asked John why he hung around Sherlock. Despite the love he held for the dear man so close to his heart, he understood their line of questioning. He really did.

But, he would always tell them, the heart wants what the heart wants, after all.

At least he was a bit _more_ tolerable with John. He noted how Sherlock’s attitude was nearly amiable in his presence. But this was not the case with the Doctor, who he treated in a similar way to Mycroft; childishly, as if testing the strength of the other man’s patience constantly. But the Doctor never seemed to mind, as John had witnessed over the past dozen or so unexpected visits. In fact, the poor man always bared it with a smile as though he was completely ignoring what a sod Sherlock was being.

“He’s not my friend, John. He’s going to ask me to leave you. Or try to take us both with him. Or,” Sherlock murmured, irritation growing with every harsh word, “he’ll try to do the impression. _Again_.”

John shook his head, smiling as he patted Sherlock’s back. He paused and pursed his lips, suddenly concerned.

“Is he…” he swallowed, eyes darting around the room as if looking for the Doctor. “Do you think he’s alright in there? He’s taking an awful long time to come out, I mean.”

“He’s fine. In case of emergency, that little spaceship of his wouldn’t fly itself here,” Sherlock brushed off John’s worry, speaking as if TARDIS protocols were programmed into his brain. “He’s planning on doing the impersonation, however.”

John accepted this with a quiet, “oh” and settled back down into a calm state of mind before his face scrunched up with a question.

“Wait. How do you know?”

“Because,” Sherlock snorted, amusement playing in his voice. “Last time he pulled that party trick, I hid that ridiculous ear hat somewhere in the TARDIS while you two were playing on the Wii.”

Doctor Watson couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, acknowledging the man next to him possessed an underhanded, sly side that would have made Moriarty proud. 

* * *

 

“Twice, John! Twice!”

Sherlock paced the living room, his blue dressing gown swishing angrily and John watching to his best attempt. His head grew heavier by the moment, his eyes threatening to drop. At one point, he wasn’t sure which Sherlock he was supposed to be following. He didn’t want to know how late it was—for a Time Lord, the Doctor seemed to keep very little consideration for that which he held lordship of.

“I know you’re not exactly chuffed about all this, but he’s just excited. He likes having a… _colleague_ —” John was sure to use this to lessen Sherlock’s sulking—“who’s brilliant. He appreciates you, and I know you like that sort of… _thing_.” John nodded in his direction, struggling with what he was trying to express with his exhausted mind. “Chatting it up with people on your level, I mean.”

The methodical walk of Sherlock Holmes around the furniture continued as he seemed to refuse commenting, vivid post-Doctor visit as usual. He couldn’t ascertain if John was being self-pitying or insecure, or if this was just the dark circles under his eyes talking. John rolled those eyes, and with a grunt got to his feet. Barely within reach of the door frame, Sherlock stopped in his tracks and demanded to know where John was going.

“You’re all riled up,” John explained. “You’ll be up for hours.” He grabbed the knob and looked back at his flatmate. “I, however, have to be up at six for work. So I’m going to pop upstairs for a kip. See you in the morning.”

His foot was already crossing the threshold, his body angled for the turn to take the stairs and Sherlock cursed that ridiculous bow-tie wearing alien even more.

“No, I’m fine,” he spoke in his best contained voice that sounded too flat for his own ears to pass as normal. John didn’t seem to notice. Sherlock bolted down his racing, panicking thoughts and surging muscles that wanted to rush forward. “I just want to go back to bed.” As if to demonstrate this, Sherlock faked a yawn and stretched dramatically. An expectant look settled on his features as he moved towards the bedroom, and he looked back at John only once as if to ask _“coming?”_

“Alright,” John replied begrudgingly, his face a little red. He moved towards Sherlock, but redirected himself just as fast. “Wait, give me half a mo.” John left. Fully lost, Sherlock wandered into his bedroom and listened. _He’s scampering around upstairs,_ Sherlock’s ears registered the man’s actions in the room above him. Now he was only left to wonder why John would do such a thing.

Moments later, after waiting for the sound of John’s feet padding against the chilly kitchen linoleum, his inquiry was answered by a comforter and quilt bundled in John’s arms.

“Hope you don’t mind,” John slurred, footsteps sloppy and heavy. “This one--” he gestured to the thick, navy blue blanket from his own bed— “it’s a bit warmer. I don’t know… fluffing’s… denser or something. Not as much cold or whatever gets caught. Better insulation, I suppose.”

He got to work destroying Sherlock’s “lure John via fancy blankets” plan, its perpetrator forced to watch, The shorter man collapsed, managing to roll into the bed after stuffing the quilt down near the end of the mattress, ensuring its homemade patchwork could reach Sherlock’s considerably longer feet. Sherlock, speechless, followed suit and pulled the blanket that was barely wide enough to fit on his bed over his shoulders.

“Your feet are freezing, Sherlock,” John explained the extra quilt business in a warning voice that broke the stillness of the suddenly spacious room. Sherlock said nothing, the shock having not completely faded away. And John had been right; Sherlock was too tense to fall back asleep, so he lay there, straining to be as still for John as possible, not wanting to scare him away. But John had noticed the rigidity of Sherlock’s body, and his meticulous breathing that was supposed to be soothing came across instead as quite peculiar. Wordlessly, John rolled closer to Sherlock, wanting to soothe him before he popped a blood vessel.

“So you’re… fine with this.” It was a statement coming from Sherlock.

“Yes?” John reassured him, his voice wavering with uncertainty. He felt like he had stepped in the middle of one of Sherlock’s sprawling trains of thought.

Piercing eyes stopped drilling daggers into the ceiling and glanced down at John with traces of an endearing expression. Sherlock wanted to laugh at how much power John held over him, whether or not both of them were aware of it all of the time. And sometimes Sherlock simply forgot because that’s how good and kind John was, how effortlessly he fit in as though Sherlock’s life had been missing one key puzzle piece.

But John didn’t see any of this. In fact, his eyes remained closed, unable to bother himself into opening them as he pressed his trailing hand onto Sherlock’s forearm with an expert precision of the other man’s lanky body. “Are you fine with this?” His voice was getting incoherent, but with clarity he reminded “It’s just a blanket.”

Sherlock would go on to grumble that he’d finally be okay when they figured out a way to Doctor-proof the flat. He droned on about how Mycroft once absentmindedly revealed he was keeping tabs on two Americans who might be “useful” to the British nation and her protection from extraordinary adversaries. He said that they may know one or two things about the men and creatures that go bump in the night. So, who was to say these brothers couldn’t handle an effervescent mad man in a box that flashes bright lights in the middle of the night as well? 


End file.
